


Stitches

by dvske



Series: Count the Ways [1]
Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Drabble, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 06:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5775913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvske/pseuds/dvske
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every time, he's divided.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stitches

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [_The Way You Said 'I Love You'_](http://rhvme.tumblr.com/post/137729229293/) prompts via a lovely soul on tumblr. Prompt# 8, As An Apology.

Some nights, he’s a torrent.

His studio in disarray: Loose fabrics on the floor. Needles and pins, haphazardly peppering each surface. Spindles of thread unwoven, undone, bunched and bundled and knocked form their perch on the corkboard. Containers pried open, erupting against their will. Everywhere, materials shaken out of place during his search to mix and match, to complement and subdue. Colors in revolt. Patterns and textures set on collision course. Papers crumpled in the process, again and again, as he sifts through old sketches with growing displeasure.

_No good._

His leg bouncing, foot tapping against the stool as he tries to force himself to sit still. His nerves are jittery, his fingers occasionally running themselves through his hair _(justbreathe)_ before returning to the page once more. Images attempting cohesion in his mind, attempting a fluent translation to paper. Failing. The designs don’t work, the designs don’t work, the designs  _won’t_ work—

_Make them._

A simple fix… It’d be so easy, all he’d really need. Just for tonight. Just one simple fix to set his work in motion. Liquid Muse, a mixture of strong drink and pill, ambrosial essence that heightened the senses, distorted the world for a time. He’d fly. Technicolor sound thrumming through his veins, shapes snapping into place, hardened curves and softened hues and beauty in a multitude of singularity. The creation he craved, if only for the night, if only for this moment, one last time, but he promised. He promised her.

_It’ll be different._

A flurry of nerves on edge, soon pushing himself away from the desk and its mess, heading straight for the kitchen cabinets. Just one glass, just one drink, just one dose left waiting in his stash in the drawer underneath. A hitch in his chest _(it’sokay)_ , tightness there as his hands tremble and run slick with sweat _(it’sokay)_ , as he opens the cabinet and withdraws his cup _(it’sokayit’sokay)_ and then fumbling, the glass slipping, falling—

It breaks. Shatters.

The sound is sharp, sending a jolt through his body, a snap of stinging sensation. Then his hands are shaking harder, running down his face, again, again, why again? Too much too fast too soon.

_You’re okay._

A voice, imagined but crystal clear. A memory of reassurance repeated to him again and again and again on nights just like these, in moments of shock just like this. Lil’s voice, soothing and spreading over him like a wave, a steady current to ease his restless tide of emotion.

_You’re okay, Max._

A reminder, always in the back of his head, always nagging when the need got this bad. A pit forming in his stomach, a heave of breath as he sinks down to the floor, back pressed against the counter, eyes shut, toes curled and bitten by the glass, _you’re okay, it’s okay, but you promised, oh you promised you promised._

Remembrance. Slender hands on his shoulders, her touch so certain and guiding in the midst of his high. Gently urging him into her embrace as she waited for the fall, waited for the crash.

_You’ll be okay, but no more, Max. Please. Please, no more._

He’s promised, over and over, but he still ends up at this juncture. Every time, he’s divided. Every damn time, he regrets, but the ache is still there. The disappointment still lingers. Failed designs continue to mock and plague, and again, again, again he falters because how can he create without this crutch? How can he inspire when inspiration eludes?

_I can’t…_

_I know._

_I’m trying…_

_I know._

_I’m sorry…_

(She knows, she’ll know, she always knows.)

_Why, Max?_

For not having an answer.


End file.
